Page 67

Week One

I watch the team as they filter in from their lunch break. Groups of boys who aren’t quite men yet joke and jab at one another, but their commitment to the team is obvious, as it never escalates. Coaching as an adult is like an odd trip down memory lane to the times when Benjy, Dylan, and the rest of the boys were the big men on campus—the state champions year after year.

We thought we knew who we were and what we were doing, but as I realized recently, we didn’t have a clue. I suppose that’s most teenage boys, but at the moment, you don’t have any context for just how small this part of your life really is. You can’t fathom what decisions made then could do to the future—not just your own, but that of everyone around you.

The Cotillion bullshit didn’t change a damn thing for any of us, but it’s clearly followed Jolene her entire life. I see the way her body tenses when it’s mentioned.

Shaking my head, I push away the thoughts of her moans and soft skin. I high-tailed it out of her house while she was out because I had no idea what to say to her when she came to. I know I can’t spill the secrets she isn’t ready for, and I can’t answer why we had that moment without explaining—otherwise, I’d have to fob it off as a ‘one night’ thing.

And that couldn’t be more inaccurate.

A rumbling sound makes me look up at the sky. In the summer, we have three-a-days in rain or sweltering heat, but I have to watch the skies for lightning. Unlike the whackos in the marching band, I pull my guys well before it gets too dangerous. Though, I gotta give that band director credit—he’s easily as dedicated as myself or the basketball coaches. His kids are filling the hallways of the school in similarly structured practices right alongside of us.

I wouldn’t have admitted that in high school for sure, so maybe I am evolving.

Slipping my shades out of my pocket, I watch more boys filter in. They’re not late—they wouldn’t dare—but like most teens, it’s a slow trickle until everyone is gathered in place on the field. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shiny black muscle car pull into the lot and I grin despite myself. My drugar is in the house, and her sexy car is like a magnet for the guys. They’re whispering about the Impala covetously as I wait for her to emerge.

Jolene emerges from the car like a dangerous shadow, all legs and dark waves. It’s all I can do not gape as I watch her bend and fiddle with something inside the car. I’m so entranced by the curves on display that I miss some of the boys pausing to do their own impression of Shemp until one of them lets out a whistle that echoes across the lot. My girl narrowly misses slamming her head into the top of the car as she jerks up to confront the idiot who cat-called her.

I can’t see her eyes, but I bet the emerald is flashing like a danger sign.

Her cats leap out of the car to stand at attention on either side of her, snarling like beasts twice their size as she stares at the goofy group of players guffawing and high-fiving one another. They continue to laugh it up as she glares in their direction with an unimpressed look on her face. I realize she hasn’t seen me yet, so she can’t try to avoid me after our little faux pas.

Time to smooth things over.

I stroll up to her casually, plastering my most amenable grin on my face. “Well, hello, sugar.”

Her head whips around and she turns that murder stare on me without missing a beat. The cats follow her lead, redirecting their wrath at me via low, dark growls. “Hell, Edgar. Are those your little dopplegangers?”

Ouch. How did she know I was thinking I’d evolved past that kind of behavior? I need to show her that I have.

I jerk my thumb over my shoulder, smirking. “Them? Just boys, drugar.” Lifting my fingers to my lips, I let out a whistle three times as loud to get their attention. “We. Do. Not . Harass. Women. Gentleman! 50 laps for the entire team. Now!”

My team moves like the hounds of Hell are upon them, which is fitting. They’re muttering to each other as they jog off, but I don’t care. That’s not the behavior I want them to present to the public regardless of whether it’s my woman or any woman. I won’t stand for the boys I coach feeling so entitled that they go off to college and end up doing something awful because no one ever told them ‘no’ in their entire lives.

“Better?” I ask, batting my lashes at her playfully.

I should get points for that, right?

She shrugs, sniffing imperiously. “I suppose.”

Before I can open my mouth again, she turns and stalks off, cats in tow as she heads for the main office. I watch her go with a pensive expression. I have the feeling she knows we need to talk, but she’s not ready. I’m going to have to work harder to get her to let me explain than I thought. As I stare at her until she walks inside, a thought flits through my mind.

How the hell did she get grass in her hair?

* * *

The practice drags on for what feels like an eternity. Laps never make them happy, even when I join them in running. Sweat is pouring down my bare back as the sun beats down on the field, and I curse myself for hoping the rain held off earlier. Weather in this part of the South can be extremely variable, and most of it is unkind. When the sky doesn’t let loose during the summer, the humidity rises to the point of suffocation, and that’s where we are right now.

But we don’t call it unless the index is over 90, and it’s hotter than Satan’s asshole, but not that hot.

“Okay, gentleman! Set up for plays. I want you to run the book we’re using for pre-season, but no tagging the red shirt!”

I trudge over to the bleachers, climbing up to the middle to watch from an elevated position. We have a solid line this season, and if they continue to develop over the next couple years, there are a few players that will be D1 eligible. It will require quite a bit of finesse to keep them in fighting shape given the leniency of the parents in the Hollow, but I’m fairly certain I can convince them to hire extra trainers and personal career managers for the ones who have the most potential.

After all, there’s nothing the Hollow elite love more than bragging on their children’s achievements, especially if they get national attention at State U.

My phone buzzes, and I frown as the flood of messages from my runners in other towns inch up my screen. It sounds like there’s a walk-on at State U’s main in-state rival. The kid came out of nowhere—a transfer from some podunk college in Alabama—and he’s lighting the practice field on fire. That’s going to make the number fluctuate rapidly, and even though it’s only pre-season, I’ll need to send someone to see the arm on this kid in person.

That son of a bitch at U of K was probably hiding him. He’s a sneaky asshole, and I wouldn’t put it past him to scout someone without officially declaring it.

Clicking my contacts open, I call Billy. “I saw the messages.”

“Yeah,” he replies. I can hear the noise of his gym in the background and I chuckle. Billy’s not the brightest bulb in the box, but he’s been a loyal soldier since high school. He runs Better Booties gym and is my second command in my… side hustle.

I wait, and when he doesn’t elaborate, I sigh. “Billy, you’ll have to go see what this means for the pre-season. Can you go tonight?”

He grunts, and I wait as he counts under his breath. The muscled meathead is finishing a set rather than answering me, and it makes my hound flare. I’m aware that he’s not smart, but this seems overly oblivious. There must be good looking girls nearby—a fact that shouldn’t matter because he’s married to Jillian Marie and she’s likely to cut his balls off.

I’d want to cut his balls off, too, given he convinced her to adopt three boys because he was sterile and then managed to impregnate her with twins while the paperwork was still in progress.

Five boys of varying ages is probably why she’s still such a venomous spider, and I can’t say I envy raising them while Billy runs around chasing skirts and fixing my problems.

But I’m not exactly holding a gun to his head, so I don’t get involved.

Sadly, that’s how many of the marriages are here in the Hollow because they’re arranged for political or financial clout. It’s also why I worked my ass off throughout college and law school to build my own legitimate and illegitimate empires so I wouldn’t have to remain under my parents’ thumbs. If they decide to cut me off, I’ll be just fine. Since I’m the only heir to the Boone family name, their threats are fairly empty, but I never wanted to take chances.

I did enough bad shit based on their demands in high school. I haven’t atoned for that yet; I don’t need anything else hanging over my head.

A crunch rings in my ear and I remember I’m still waiting for Billy to get his shit together. “Billy! Stop fucking around with the bicep bunnies and pack a goddamned bag. You’re headed to Louie and you’ll stay there until you have enough information for us to call a meeting to re-define the line for the pre-season. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, boss,” he mutters.

I’ve never told him to call me that, I swear to Hades, but the idiot has since we were kids. Some people are simply made to be flunkies.

“Text me pictures and videos as soon as you have them,” I reply as I hang up.

Most people don’t really understand this part of my life—it’s half math and half behavioral science. There’s a shit ton of research, field study, and sabermetrics that go into running a profitable book business, especially in the age of the Internet.

Billy is in charge of the runners and scouts—associates who attend to things in person like he’s going to in a few hours. Sander—also known as Lysander Marx Behle—is in charge of the tech based crews. He keeps in touch with the teams combing social media and local news websites for information across the country. Being a unicorn shifter, he’s taken a lot of crap in his life, but he’s as talented with people management as he is interior design, so I rely on him to wrangle the geeks.

You’d never know it by looking at the guy, but he can be menacing as hell.

Dylan Marlowe Grant keeps the books in secret—owning a bookstore is a perfect cover for a guy who has the brains to do calculus in his head while reading Shakespeare at the same time. And the last partner in my crime syndicate is Benjamin Louis Foster, who runs dirty cash through his liquor store and private bar—aptly named The Speakeasy—so we can funnel it into other legitimate investments.

Being the county judge has its perks and I make certain no one is looking in our direction too closely.

Of course, dear old dad being a Senator helps as well. He’s as crooked as a question mark unless it comes to supe legislation, and I’m sure he’s benefitted from my local network a time or two. I can always tell when he’s sent a proxy to bet because he’s got a distinct pattern to his wagers, and he’s usually not successful. Being human has its drawbacks, and not being able to read the behavior of various supes is one of them.

My watch beeps, letting me know the practice is over until this evening.

Thank fuck.

I blow my whistle and yell for the team to gather for the afternoon huddle. This needs to be short because I’m heading into town in hopes I run across my drugar again.

I have to make her understand why I left. She has to forgive me—there’s no other option.